


you put your arms around me and I'm home

by BookFangirlMaryJane



Series: Thoschei Spyvember Prompts [4]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Forehead Kisses, Gen, Haircuts, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Anguish, No Fluff, Or maybe he isn't, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Post-Prison, Reading Aloud, Recovery, Soft Master (Doctor Who), Spoilers, Spyvember Prompts (Doctor Who), The Master is a bit ooc, Thoschei, Trauma, actual comfort this time, because they're seriously underrated, hurt 13, not when he's around the Doctor, only very lightly but to be safe I'm tagging it, the doctor is Not Okay, this has sick fic vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27615749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookFangirlMaryJane/pseuds/BookFangirlMaryJane
Summary: Someone knocks on the bathroom door and she startles. “Everything alright?” he calls through the closed door. She breathes. “Yeah,” she calls back, voice cracking. It’s not. It’s not but he’s still here. He’s still here, outside that door, and she’s in here, washing off prison.--o--Written for Spyvember, prompt was 'Haircut'.Warnings: mentions of self-harm, trauma and 13 being Not Okay.Spoilers for all of series 12, especially post-s12e10 The Timeless Children.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: Thoschei Spyvember Prompts [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017984
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	you put your arms around me and I'm home

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, back with another prompt-inspired work.  
> This one is very much NOT fluff. Seriously. It's very angsty. You have been warned.  
> Also, the Master is slightly ooc, in regards to being incredibly gentle with the Doctor, who is on the brink of a breakdown. Hurt/Comfort with actual comfort (shocking, I know).  
> It's soft Thoschei, does that count as fluff?
> 
> Warning: mentions of self-harm. I didn't realize when I was writing, but yes, that's what it is. Please be careful reading on.  
> Also, spoilers for series 12. Off-handedly mentions of the events of Timeless Children. (The Doctor is too traumatized to think about it much right now.)

“You need a haircut, luv,” he comments with a glance at her dirt-caked, not-anymore blonde, far too long hair. She just hums in agreement and lets him lead her over to the shower. “Now, can I leave you alone or are you likely to fall down if I let go?”

She considers. She doesn’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.

“Dunno. Think I’ll manage.” She wants him to leave. She never wants him to leave again. She doesn’t want him to see her like this. Yes, that’s true. She doesn’t want him to see her like this. But she doesn’t want him to leave her alone.

“Wait outside?” she requests and squeezes his hand. His face softens. “Of course. Call if you need me.” He carefully lets go of her arm, hands poised barely an inch from her skin, ready to catch her should she fall. She doesn’t fall. She grabs hold of the shower door and breathes. “’S okay.”

With a nod, he leaves her to it. Leaves her alone in the bathroom, in ugly-colored prison clothes, with hair reaching her thighs, with broken nails and bloody fingers and sunken-in cheeks. Slowly, she strips out of the dirty clothes, lets the once-white socks fall to the ground, rids herself of the red uniform, kicks off everything until she’s standing there naked and shivering.

It takes her far too much effort to clamber the last few steps into the shower. Her arms shake when she closes the door. Her legs tremble. She leans against the wall for stability. One hand slowly reaches for the tap.

Hot water rushes down her body. She stands there without moving for a long while. Time is shaking around her, she doesn’t know how long it’s been, doesn’t care to know, needs to know. Eventually she moves, carefully starts cleaning the grime and dirt off her body, rinses it out of her hair. Her nails scrape over her skin, leave thin lines of red. It stings. She doesn’t mind. Doesn’t care. Does care? It’s all so confusing, both and neither at the same time.

Someone knocks on the bathroom door and she startles. “Everything alright?” he calls through the closed door. She breathes. “Yeah,” she calls back, voice cracking. It’s not. It’s not but he’s still here. He’s still here, outside that door, and she’s in here, washing off prison.

“Okay.” He goes quiet again. She resumes in lathering shampoo on her head. She feels sick. But slowly, she’s feeling less like she’s just crawled out of a hole, less like she’s spent decades in a dark prison cell.

Bad thought. Bad thought. Bad thought.

Her legs give out and she slips down, comically slow in her fall, kneels on the ground, lets the water run over her, lets it cleanse her, lets the dark thoughts flow away, down the drain.

She watches as the water turns from dirty black to grey to light grey to clear. Clean.

Slowly, she gets up and stumbles out of the shower. Finds a dry towel and wraps it around her shaking body. Finds another and tries to put it around her hair. Fails. Too much hair. Her legs are trembling still. Her hands are, too.

She can’t do this on her own. She can’t… She doesn’t want to? She can’t? Is there a difference? Isn't there?

Her voice dies in her throat when she tries to call him inside. The _‘help me’_ burns on her tongue and the _‘Master’_ stings. She won’t even consider _~~‘Koschei’~~_ another name.

Instead, she sinks to her knees and breathes. Weak fingers find the shower door and she knocks on them, four times. _Help me, ~~Koschei~~ Master. I need you. Please hear me._

“Are you alright?” he asks. She repeats the knock and hopes he understands. “I’m coming in, okay?” He waits for a beat longer, long enough for her to disagree if she wanted to. She doesn’t want to. She needs him by her side.

The moment he sees her on the ground, trembling, he lets all hesitation drop away and comes to her aid. Falls to his knees beside her, scoops her up in a hug, lets her shake against him.

“Shh, it’s alright. I’ve got you, luv. I’ve got you,” he whispers in her hair. Too-long hair. She hates it. She doesn’t hate it. She wants it gone but she doesn’t hate it. Does she? Doesn’t she?

What does it matter, anyway?

“Come on, luv, let’s get you dried off.” He helps her up, helps her get dry without looking, just keeping her standing as she towels herself off, looking away. Somehow, he manages to get all of her hair up on her head, curled into the towel. Missy had long hair. She misses her. Does she? Yes. Yes, she does. She misses him, too. Misses them. The two of them, being friends.

He carefully leads her out of the bathroom and over into a large room. Should she recognize this room? Is this her room? It looks like her room. It is. Oh, it is her room, yes. It’s so big. Why did he take her here?

Slowly he helps her sit down on the bed and then pulls clothes from a drawer. Right, clothes. That’s why they’re here.

She takes what he gives her and then waits for him to leave the room. He does. She doesn’t even have to say it. Slowly, she gets dressed. The blue-white socks pull her lips into something like a smile, even if it must look horribly twisted. Lucky no one but her is in the room, isn't it?

The shirt falls over her thin body, too big. Or maybe she’s just too small. When did she last eat? Drink? Sleep? No, she won’t sleep. She can’t sleep. Nightmares. Insomnia. Too many thoughts crowding her head. Take your pick.

Similar to the shirt, her trousers fall back down from around her hips. Isn't there…? She stumbles over to the wardrobe and searches through it. Finds boxers that she quickly changes into. Doesn’t like this female underwear, anyway. Finds a sports bra that she changes into. Those others are stupid, anyway. Where are her braces?

There, a splash of yellow. She takes them out, fastens them on her trousers and then picks up the grey coat from the coat rack. Puts it on. It’s too big for her small frame, too. Everything is too big today. Everything is too big for her. Her room, her clothes, her coat, her past, ~~her name~~. She wraps her arms around her body, hugs herself tight as she slides to the ground.

A knock at the door. “Are you dressed, luv?”

She wants to answer but all that comes out of her mouth is a broken sob.

The Master takes it as a sign to enter. His eyes find her shaking form immediately, huddled between the wardrobe and the wall. Slowly, he gets closer and then sinks down to his knees, looks right into her wide eyes.

“It’s too big,” she whispers, desperately needing him to understand what’s wrong but not knowing how to make him **understand**. “It’s all too big.”

Gentle hands take her own, hold them, cradle them to his chest. He presses her palms against his shirt, over his hearts. Their calm drumbeat vibrates through her hands, echoed frantically in her own chest.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be alright. Don’t push it. You’ll get there. And I’m here with you,” the Master promises and she feels herself calm down a little. He… he’s right. She’ll get there. Eventually. And he’s here. He hasn’t left her yet. (Not yet.)

“Okay,” she whispers and lets him pull her into a hug. Her hands bury themselves in the fabric of his shirt. Oh, he still smells of home, even after everything. Smoke and ruins and stale memories and the happiness of children not knowing any better. Lemon tea with a splash of honey. His shampoo, smelling faintly of lavender. Of Missy. Of home.

When they finally pull apart, she finds that her nails have ruined his shirt. With a surprised noise the Master examines it and then looks down at her hands. “Oh, luv. Come on, let’s get those nails of yours taken care of, yes? That must have hurt.”

“Mhm.” She doesn’t elaborate and he doesn’t ask her to.

Instead, he helps her up and leads her back into the bathroom. The prison clothes are gone. He sits her down on the edge of the bathtub, gets a pair of nail clippers and gets to work. His hands are incredibly gentle and it barely hurts, even though her fingertips are horribly tender and raw.

When he's done, the Master takes her hands in his and gently tugs her upright. Leads her over to the sink and fills it with warm water. She watches, a little detached, like she’s not really there, as he washes her hands, cleans the dirt and dried blood from beneath her now-short nails, wraps them in a towel and rubs them dry.

“Why are you doing this?” she finds herself asking. “Being so kind. After what I said? After I…?” A sob threatens to break free but she swallows it down again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I don’t think that, I was just angry. Please, don’t leave me.”

He looks at her with eyes so full of emotion she almost loses the fight against the tears. “I would never leave you. No matter what happens. I… You looked at me, from inside that cell, and for a moment it was like you didn’t even recognize me.” Did she? She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember a lot about her rescue.

“I could never be cruel to you when you look at me the way you’re doing right now,” the Master says, cupping her cheek with one hand, and she has no idea how she’s looking at him but she thinks she understands. She could never be cruel to him, either, no matter what he did, no matter what he does. He is… he is the only one left, the only person even remotely like her. How could she ever give that up?

“Thank you,” she says, voice shaking with emotion.

“For you, always,” he replies, calm and collected, her polar opposite.

Then he gives her back her hands and she looks down at the rosy skin, at the short nails, at the perfectly clean hands she hadn’t expected to see again, not after that cell.

“Thank you,” she repeats, and then adds, hesitantly: “My hair next? It’s… it’s too long.”

A smile spreads on his face. “Of course, luv. Anything.”

She gets up to re-seat herself on a chair, back towards the Master, eyes carefully skipping past the small mirror. Not yet. Not now. Later, maybe.

“Any requests?” he asks when he steps up behind her to drape a piece of dark cloth around her shoulders, a pair of scissors in his hand. Mutely, she shakes her head. Nothing. Just not this long. “Short.” That’s all she wants. The reminders of her years spent in prison to be gone, eradicated, cut off, burned away, **anything** to make her stop thinking about it.

Behind her, she hears the metallic sound of the scissors opening and closing, the soft noise as they cut through her hair and it falls to the ground, pools around the chair. It feels like a weight being lifted off her. She can breathe again. A glorious feeling.

She loses time staring at the bathroom wall. Losing time staring at walls is familiar, although the walls in prison were just a dull grey, whereas these ones are pretty and light blue, a touch of green, and the tiles are all different sizes. Great for a game of mind-Tetris. It helps her distance herself, helps ground her in this space. Her TARDIS. Not prison. The old girl and the Master are by her side, and they’re taking care of her. Aren’t they?

Yes. Yes, they are.

“You alright there, luv?” he asks and she startles. “Hmm?”

He gently touches her shoulder. “I’m done.”

She turns around to look at him, realizes the cloth and the hairs around her feet are gone, and then she carefully reaches back to touch her hair. It loosely curls around her ears now, still a little wet. Oh, she loves it. It’s… it’s nice.

“Thank you, so much.”

His lips quirk. “No trouble at all. Just remember to come to me for any future haircuts.” Maybe she will. Maybe she really will do that. “Okay.”

“Now, how about something to eat? And then some rest. You look exhausted, luv.”

Food, yes. Rest… Not so sure about that one. She’ll have to see if she can fall asleep. The nightmares that kept her awake in prison… She thinks they might have followed her here. She dreads falling asleep. Does she have to?

“I’m starving,” she quickly says, and the Master smiles. “Then I’ll get you some food. I’m sure your ship is willing to make a nice meal. And some of those ridiculous biscuits you like. Custard creams, right?”

A small smile tugs on her lips. “Yeah.” She can’t believe he remembered that.

He walks her to the library and drapes a soft blanket around her shoulders once she's comfortably curled up on a sofa. When she smiles at him, he smiles back, strokes her cheek, a light touch against her skin, feather-light and gone in an instant. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe she didn’t. She hopes she didn’t.

She’s alone in the room for a bit. The Master went to get food. It gives her a bit of time. Time to think. Time to pull herself together. Time to card her hands through her short hair and ground herself in this moment, in this room, in this body. She is here. In the TARDIS library. She’s not in prison anymore. She’s free. The Master is here. The Master is being kind. The Master rescued her from prison and is now helping her get back on her feet.

This is incredibly bizarre, she notes with a soft sigh. He doesn’t usually do this. Does he? Doesn’t he? She doesn’t remember. She doesn’t think so.

Her mind is still a bit fuzzy on the details. There are big chunks missing, holes and gaps and black spots. She tries not to think about them, tries to avoid them. But sometimes she can’t help it and then she falls right into those black holes, gets sucked into the agony of prison and Gallifrey and losing, losing, losing…

Bad thought. Bad thought, bad thought, bad thought.

With a sharp cry she curls into herself and trembles. Rakes her dull nails through her short hair and feels strange, feels not here, feels far away. No broken nails, no long hair, no prison. No prison. She breathes. She breathes and shudders and lets out a small sob.

By the time the Master returns with the food, she’s sitting with her back pressed against the sofa cushions, hands loosely curled in the blanket and eyes focused on the wall opposite her. He makes enough noise to shake her out of the trance and quickly, hazel eyes slide over to him.

“I’ve got some soup,” he says as he places the tray down in front of her. Two bowls, some bread, a glass of water, two spoons. A pack of custard creams. She opens the biscuits first, carefully bites into one and feels more like herself again. She loves custard creams.

“Thank you.”

He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head and then settles in beside her. “Thank your ship. Don’t think I’d have found anything edible in that kitchen of yours if it wasn’t for you. She still doesn’t like me.”

A low warbling sound echoes through the room and she frowns. “Course she doesn’t, you were mean to her.” To the TARDIS, she says: “Thank you, old girl.” It earns her a brightening of the lights and a pleased chirping. The Master rolls his eyes at their antics.

“Come on, then. Eat your soup, luv.”

She does. No use protesting, when her stomach is aching for food, aching to be filled. When did she last eat? She still can’t say. It tastes amazing. Tomato soup, balm for the soul. And the bread is fresh, so fresh and still warm. She doesn’t ask how. It’s the TARDIS, she doesn’t **have** to ask.

When their bowls are empty and the bread is eaten and the custard creams are all gone and the glass of water is drained, the Master tilts his head and looks at her. “How are you feeling?”

Loaded question. She considers.

“Not hungry or thirsty. Clean.” A pause. “Bigger. A little.”

His lip quirks and he slowly reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s good.” She hums. Is it? Isn't it? What does that even mean, good? She doesn’t feel good. She doesn’t feel bad, either. She isn't sure what she feels.

“You look exhausted. What do you say about getting some sleep?”

No.

“Not sure I can sleep,” she answers honestly. Almost honestly. She’s not sure she can sleep. She’s not sure she wants to sleep. She’s not sure which one, if either, if neither, if both, is true.

He is watching her with alert eyes. “That’s alright. But you look like you might benefit from at least lying down for a while.” Maybe. This **is** rather comfortable.

With another soft kiss pressed to her forehead, the Master stands up and holds out his hand. Slowly, she takes it and lets him pull her up. The blanket falls from her shoulders and pools on the sofa. They leave it there. She’s got a blanket in her room. Several blankets. They’re cozy.

As they walk back to her room, she comments: “The old girl reorganized.” A trilling noise echoes through the hallway. The Master frowns at her. “What?”

“Well, my room’s never been this close to the library before,” she muses. She’s grateful that the TARDIS thought to shuffle the rooms around like this. Her legs are still a bit weak.

He chuckles. “Shall I prepare myself to never find a single room I’m looking for, then?” A whirring noise from the old girl is his immediate answer. With a sigh, he mutters: “Great.”

It startles a giggle from her. The sound is choked, surprised, and she closes her mouth seconds after it escaped. That’s… She doesn’t remember the last time she giggled like that. Doesn’t remember the last time she actually thought something funny enough to…

They’re both quiet for the rest of the walk to her room.

When she steps inside, the room is still a little too big. She doesn’t like it. She can bear it, though. It’s nothing she can’t take. It’ll be okay. It feels less big than before.

She slowly takes off her coat and lets it drop to the floor. Unclasps the braces and lets them, and the trousers, pool around her ankles. Doesn’t bother to undress further, only slipping into her bed and curling up at the head, back against the wooden frame.

The Master still stands by the door. He looks uncertain, all of a sudden. It doesn’t look good on his face. He shouldn’t be uncertain.

She holds out a hand and looks right into his eyes. She doesn’t say anything.

He moves, comes over and takes her hand. Squeezes it and gives her a smile. “Want me to stay?” Is that hesitation?

“Yes,” she whispers, not even waiting to think it through. _Yes, stay, don’t leave me, don’t ever leave me again. I couldn’t stand it._ She doesn’t say that, of course.

Slowly, the Master toes off his shoes and trousers. She scoots over and lets him get seated next to her in the bed. His shirt is still torn. She doesn’t point it out. He probably knows.

“What now?” she finds herself asking. She can’t sleep. She won’t sleep. She needs sleep. What does she do now? What do **they** do?

Out of nowhere, the Master pulls out a book and holds it up in question. “I could read to you. Maybe it calms your mind a bit. Distracts you.” Yes, that sounds good. She needs her mind to shut up for a bit, needs everything to be quiet for a while. And his voice is soft. It has to be perfect for reading out loud, she thinks.

“Please.”

As he shuffles around until he finds a comfortable position against the headboard, she curls her hands into the blanket. Considers. Once the Master opens the book, she moves over and leans against his side. Lets her head fall on his shoulder.

He pauses, moves his arm and tucks it around her, pulls her close until she’s curled into him. She relaxes into the embrace and feels the tension leave his body, too. Like this, she can hear his hearts beating, a familiar rhythm, a calming beat. She smiles when he kisses the top of her head and then brandishes the book.

It doesn’t take her long to fall asleep, buried in the comfort of his arms, the comfort of his hearts beating next to hers, the comfort of his voice in her ear. Her eyes droop and she doesn’t fight it. She knows, in this moment, that he will be there when she wakes. He will be there. And suddenly, the nightmares don’t seem all that terrifying anymore.

She falls asleep with a smile on her face, content in the knowledge that the Master is by her side. Content in the knowledge that he will always be by her side.

** The End **

**Author's Note:**

> So.
> 
> The title is from 'Arms' by Christina Perri. It fit. That's all my reasoning for it. Okay, and it's a very nice song.
> 
> It didn't feel right calling 13 'The Doctor' right now, so I didn't. As she says herself, the name is a bit too big at the moment. Understandable, after she's been locked up in prison for... years? I didn't specify, I think, but yeah, probably a few years. I also hesitated having the Master call her Theta. That felt too raw, too open. I'm kinda loving his 'luv', though.
> 
> For the premise: The Master got 13 out of prison once he found out she was there. She was very out of it and doesn't remember him blowing up the prison. Which he totally did. The fam is still at home. They're getting picked up once the Doctor is the Doctor again, and not falling apart anymore. They're probably gonna be a tad... surprised to see the Master... Heh. Yeah, I'm not writing that bit.
> 
> Yeah. That's all on this fic.  
> The one for tomorrow is almost done, too, so I'm ready to keep going with Spyvember. No clue where I'm taking my inspiration from, but I am determined to see it to the end. Okay, I'll skip a few days, because I have no ideas for them, but there are still a bunch of them that I really want to write something for.
> 
> Kay, stopping now.  
> Wash your hands, wear your masks, read Thoschei fanfictions!


End file.
